An exercise in mindfulness

Tag Archives: women truth tellers

There’s something about the way Stormy Daniels struts her boobs, defiant, proud, in your face, so to speak, the perfect parrying partner to Mr. Trump, our president, the ultimate defiant boaster. I am grateful for Stormy’s willingness to tell her story on 60 Minutes. I am intrigued by the strategy of this woman who is going toe to toe with our president for the attention of the media.

Am I grateful to watch Melania, her head bowed as she pushed ahead of her husband as she exited the plane at Mar-a-Lago? No. I have empathy for Melania. She is tall and stately, elegant in her repose a day before her husband’s former paramour will tell a story that will only pile more shame on the first family.

Am I grateful that two more women have come forth? Yes. They carry the story of the underbelly— the fact that Mr. Trump believes he can do as he wants at will and then clean it up. What Stormy is doing, what Stormy is saying, is that there is no cleaning this up for Mr. Trump. It’s a messy mix of excess hubris, licentiousness and misplaced power that fuels the wave Stormy is riding.

Will I watch 60 Minutes tomorrow night? Marv and I have the ritual-every Sunday night- of watching 60 Minutes. This will be no different though I must admit I am very curious about the details and how much these details will affect public opinion. I am among the frustrated who watch Mr. Trump pivot, deflect, change the subject, attack, blame, obfuscate in any way possible rather than to acknowledge what is fact.

Stormy promises a “reality” story about her relationship with the “reality show king.” Anderson Cooper, a cool, calculating commentator will be asking the questions, pulling up the threads. I doubt he will shy away from trying to expose the underbelly of the contracts and I’m hoping she will not disappoint. This will be, after all, her time. Unlike Hilary, she will not have Mr. Trump skulking at her back, pacing, pushing into her space, attempting to constrain her voice.

I am grateful that Stormy has the means and ability to take her space and to use it. I hope that the other two women, Playboy model Karen McDougal and Apprentice contestant Summer Zervos, who have simultaneous suits have their say in court and in the media. Mr Trump is a media hog. Every morning, he rises, not to open the blinds and greet the day with positivity, but to use free media to deride and divide, to Tweet at will, far and wide.

As for sex and the presidency, for some, it’s part and parcel, about the attributes and perks of power. But power gone too far must be dealt with. Will Stormy’s story make a difference? The complexity of this story cries out. How can it not? Stormy’s interview, her willingness to go toe to toe with Mr. Trump, is about her right to give voice to her part in the story, a story that a very powerful man paid big money to bury.

When I think about kindness, I think about Renah and Jayne, both felled by polio and wheelchair bound, at a time when I most needed kindness. Twenty years old, a recent transfer from Simmons College, I arrived at Wayne University and made the impulsive decision to move off campus into an untenable roommate situation. Friendless, far from my New England family, I returned to the thirteen-floor, converted hotel dorm in need of a home.

Dressed in a skirt and sweater, knee socks and saddle shoes, I knocked on Renah and Jayne’s door and was greeted by Renah’s welcoming smile. The lilt in her voice, her innate curiosity at my “preppy” attire, tempered my anxiety as I explained that the housing director had suggested I check out their room.

“Sure, we have an extra bed, by the window,” she said, as she gripped the thick rubber wheels of her chair, nodding for me to follow.

“We have a new roomie,” she called out to Jayne, reading in bed, a hand pulley above to lift her to a wheelchair bedside.

I embraced them; they embraced me. The timing was perfect. That year was filled with lessons of gratitude; our day-to-day consideration of one another filled me with ease. We told stories, shared worries. My new friends taught me how laughter can face down hurt.

At least once a week, I would grab the handles of Renah’s chair to walk the block to a storefront restaurant where we joined our little gang for a “real” meal. The wait staff, customers, everyone knew Renah and as her new “preppy” friend from Boston; I was folded in.

Long before the passage of The American Disabilities Act of 1990, there were enormous challenges for the physically challenged student attending a university. Ramps were not a given, nor were elevators in multi-floor buildings.

At her core, Renah was an activist who could look you straight in the eye and compel you to deal straight with any demeaning innuendo or impediment involving her ability to navigate her life. I recall her persistence as she negotiated a third floor change in a classroom location from the third to the first floor so that she could attend an advanced sociology class.

What would she and Jayne make of the “what is” of now—our Trumpean president, a braggart who boasts how women cannot refuse his advances, his reckless leadership? What would they make of the cascade of women truth tellers sharing their stories of male sexual predators stalking and accosting them in the work place?

In my fantasy, Renah would have kicked Harvey Weinstein right where it hurts. A young woman in a hand-driven wheelchair, she learned to be tough to the core to face the unfair and unkind behaviors she encountered.

It is humbling and gratifying to realize all these years later how the lessons of living side by side with two kind and strong-willed women have infused my resolve to stand up and assert, to write and resist the tyranny of entitlement and abuse.